The other day, I got home from work and was just about to get out of the car, when a couple of outlaws opened the back door with guns blazing. My car door was slightly open, but I was able to close it again, just as the bullets started hitting the car.

(Luckily, my car turned out to be impervious to the seemingly endless stream of bullets flying my way.)

One of the outlaws, a sharpshooter with a newly purchased, pump action rifle with “real” electronic sounds, kept me pinned down in my bullet-proof cocoon.

They approached menacingly, sneering and giggling the whole way.

I locked the door as they tried to open it and said through the closed window, “I’m not coming out until you put the guns way.”

“What?!” came the muffled reply.

“I said, I’m not coming out until you stop shooting! Stop shooting at me.”

Another giggle and a pause.

“But we’re desperados!”

“I know you’re desperados. Now put your guns down. I want to come inside.”

“Ok Daddy! How do you like my new rifle? Isn’t it neat?” One outlaw instantly turned into my youngest son, as he gave me a hug.

For some reason, my wife doesn’t like when the boys play with guns. But before they had actual guns, they used sticks, even their fingers, for the same “deadly” effect.

I don’t mind the guns…except when I’m ambushed by desperados.